I am thoroughly enjoying this book.
So far, of course, it follows the P&P plot fairly closely, even lifting much of Jane Austen's dialogue and phrasing. Its deviations, of course, come in the fact that the whole region around Longbourn is infested with zombies and the Bennet girls have been well-trained in hand-to-hand combat in the defense of their home and family against the unmentionables. It snarks along brilliantly, allowing Mr. Darcy to make a slightly risque joke at the expense of Caroline Bingley and gently critiquing the world that the Bennet girls of Jane Austen's creation must live in. I fear this might have made a more interesting short story and perhaps a whole novel will get wearisome, but I'm roughly one-fifth through and I'm delighted. It helps to be reading a book whose original plot I know intimately, so the small nuances and the hit-you-over-the-head-with-the-undead moments are the delight, rather than simply the story itself.
It intrigued me, though, that I sat down with a work of fiction. I used to devour fiction, both for my own enjoyment and for the many, many literature classes I took in college. (If I'd taken any more, they would have made me be a literature major, which seemed and still seems vastly less useful than my writing major. Note how often my fiction thesis has been useful to me over the last six years.) This evening, I had to look up my account on Facebook's version of Books iRead to remember the last fiction I read. (It was, in case you were wondering, Twilight, which I read in February. I will leave out the obligatory jokes about Stephenie Meyer turning me off of fiction, et cetera et cetera.) I had to go back even farther, to Outlander in September 2009 to find the last work of fiction I bought in an actual bookstore for the price listed on the cover.
I used to love the feeling of going to a bookstore, meandering around until I found the next book I was going to read. My allowance as a child was based on how much money I would need to buy a new book. Thus as long as paperbacks by Ann M. Martin and Beverly Cleary were $2.95, I got an allowance of $3 every two weeks, promptly spent at the Little Professor Book Store in the mall nearest my house. It was a big deal when I was in first or second grade and I discovered The Bobbsey Twins, which were only carried in hardcover at the steep rate of $4.95. I had to save up for those, a process I soon tired of when I could have been buying a book every two weeks rather than every month, and thus my collection stopped at about ten books in.
I moved on to cheap best-seller paperbacks eventually, books by John Grisham and Mary Higgins Clark, which I also devoured until I figured out their formulas. I was at a point with the latter where I could tell who the murderer was going to be after no more than two chapters. This was probably 1998, which was about the same time I discovered that it wasn't just people on the Internet who put their own spin on Star Trek. I shifted gears and read more bad Star Trek fiction than I care to admit.
And so on and so on. I moved through phases of chick-lit, of psuedo-seriousness, of pretending to read classics (i.e., buying classics, starting classics and then putting them on the shelf together while finding a new book by Marian Keyes), of Nick Hornby. I grew out of a book allowance and discovered that books read the same whether they come full price at a bookstore or for a penny plus shipping off Amazon Marketplace. Perhaps more importantly, now I find myself in another place where fiction is rarely appealing to me. This is a bit shattering to me, as I spent so much of my life defining myself as a reader and writer of fiction. I like the idea of it. I still want to write it. But who am I if I find myself uninspired at times by reading books about things that never actually happened when I could be spending my time reading about things that did? I remind myself that the love of the elegant turn of phrase I put a name to in literature and writing classes isn't limited to writing about things that simply represent something else about humanity. Beauty in language exists in everything from history to movie reviews (yes, I'm looking at you, Roger Ebert). I'm not sure that I'm completely okay with this turning point in myself, but I'm reading through it.
But tonight, Founding Brothers is at work and I couldn't quite bring myself to dig into The Last of the Fathers: James Madison & The Republican Legacy (next on my presidential biography list -- procured used at a deep discount courtesy of the nice sellers at bn.com and the lovely Jula, who gave me a gift card as a graduation present). Thus, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Sometimes, a girl just needs a little Fitzwilliam Darcy in her life, and sometimes, he needs to be leading with a musket against the undead.
Blogs, news articles and other reports have been discussing the crime since. (This guy went so far as to post some of Alyssa's tweets on his blog: http://tommackenzie.wordpress.com/2
On the one hand, anybody with Google could run a search for "Alyssa Bustamante" and come up with her Twitter, MySpace, etc. It's not that the news outlets are doing any sort of in-depth reporting by publishing things people could find (and have found) for themselves with two dozen keystrokes. So what's the big deal?
The big deal to me is that the contents of this girl's Web pages is not news. It's unnecessarily manipulative. Flash a slideshow of pictures of Alyssa Bustamante with heavy makeup and dark nail polish looking moody and angry with innocent little girl pictures of Elizabeth Olten and what do you get? More anger and outrage that this little girl was murdered by this crazy, messed-up pseudo-Goth girl. The story itself already pulls at you enough. Is it necessary to continue to direct public opinion in such a manner? Is it necessary to take what would have simply been evidence ten or fifteen years ago and put it out there as exhibits A through F in the online trial of public opinion? Is it necessary to juxtapose Elizabeth on the telephone with Alyssa trying to look tough? Is it necessary for the press to lead us through this series of emotions on a leash?
Yes, it's an awful, awful thing that happened. My heart breaks for Elizabeth's family. But it breaks for Alyssa's family too. What's at stake now is Alyssa's life, whether she goes to jail for the rest of her life or if she goes to jail to get the help she clearly needs. If she continues to be demonized in the press, will she have a shot at anything resembling a fair trial? The pictures she posted to her Facebook profile don't look that much different than any high schooler with a digital camera and an emo streak, but they're going to stick out in people's minds, and certainly not as images of a girl who needed and still needs help.
The Post-Dispatch is calling her case a "puzzler," as Missouri doesn't have high-security facilities for female juvenile offenders, yet her attorney argues she won't survive in a facility for adults. (http://www.stltoday.com/stltoday/news/s
The whole thing reinforces to me that the culture of news that we've developed is too much. It goes too far. We think everything is our business and everything needs our commentary. Alyssa Bustamante doesn't need our judgment on her Facebook pictures or her tweets. I hope that this case brings awareness to how much we need to pay attention to the people who are reaching out around us (when a person lists "killing people" as one of their interests, shouldn't that be a red flag to someone?). I also hope it helps us see how crazy our news system has become, but I'm not holding my breath on either one.
Now, I know that I lose major points for admitting I love John Mayer. Yes, he's a womanizer and yes, he can be kind of a d-bag and yes, he's the kind of major-label-major-venue artist I have eschewed in the recent past in favor of someone who actually needs my money.
But I really do enjoy his music, and I don't take too much issue with how he handles his massive fame or even his forays into asshattery as long as he keeps producing music that I would listen to if I had, say, discovered him while he was opening for someone like Stephen Kellogg. The man can really write a song.
Thus, one would think I'd be clamoring for tickets for John Mayer.
I've seen John Mayer in concert before, and while I really really loved the concert, I was in the fiftieth row at an outdoor venue and it was not the most delightful concertgoing experience ever. Between that and the Norah Jones experience that fall, I decided I would not again going to throw $50 or more to sit in bad seats at a concert in a "corporate whoratorium" (thanks, Ced). So I pretty much decided I wasn't ever going to see John Mayer live again in my lifetime, because I wasn't spending that kind of money on what could have been a good concert if it hadn't been a poor experience.
I'm not above winning tickets, however. I was perfectly content to sit in the nosebleeds at Fleetwood Mac when I was offered free tickets on Twitter, and I was gleefully moved to tears when they broke into "Go Your Own Way."
The only thing is I can't count on angels from Twitter for every concert, so I would have to win them in real life. I don't know where to win tickets anymore, because I broke up with my pop radio station.
I listened to Y98 almost exclusively from 2006 until this August, and although I knew I had issues with them, I kept on taking them back. Then in August I finally decided I was done. I was done with the music choices I didn't agree with. I was done with hearing the same thirty songs on loop. I was done with a radio station ostensibly for grown-ups playing Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers. I was done with a radio station funded mostly by companies bent on making me feel like something was wrong with my body -- seriously, a contest to win designer purses sponsored by a plastic surgeons' office? So not only do I need a $1000 handbag to be acceptable, I need to be resculpted so I can live up to the handbag?
Mostly, I was done with the morning DJs and their childish behavior. I left high school in 2000 but apparently they never did -- gossip and trends reign, and any sign of deviation among their ranks causes them all to turn on each other. Typically the brunt of the mockery is turned on the guy who collects GI Joe figures and comic books, and the morning they spent a whole segment making fun of this guy for taking his daughter to a olden-days festival and mocking anyone in general who would spend their weekend day in an educational manner, I turned the station for good.
So now I listen to NPR in the morning and I really enjoy it. Nobody tries to tell me there's something wrong with my body type or the hair it grows, and reality television is not news. When I'm awake enough to listen, I learn all kinds of things, mostly about Afghanistan. When I'm not awake enough to listen, it's fine background chatter and I still can be alerted if my freeway is congested. However, I'm guessing my friends Steve Inskeep and Renee Montagne will not be offering me chances to win John Mayer tickets. Such are the benefits one gives up when one breaks up with one's radio station.
I considered taking Y98 back in the attempt to win tickets... and then I decided I was not going to jump through their hoops, play their games, face mockery from the lead DJ, and most of all, actually listen to the station just to attempt to win tickets off of them.
So John Mayer, until you decide to sneak into a venue I actually like, I'll be listening to your albums and not hating your single because someone's overplaying it. And Y98, there's more chance of John Mayer playing Blueberry Hill than of me giving up Morning Edition for your company in the car. If I didn't even come back during the NPR pledge drive, you know it's over.
"You've never seen this before?" Matthew, the cashier, asked.* His eyes lit up. "You're going to love it. You're going to absolutely love it. I watched the first three seasons in a weekend. It's a love story. It's going to change your life."
I wasn't sure about all that, but I took it home and sure enough, Mike and I found ourselves hooked.
Last night on The Office, as I would surmise pretty much everyone knows, Jim and Pam got married. Of course there are naysayers on comment boards (and perhaps among you all) who are sick of Jim and Pam, who think their marriage is jumping the shark, who never liked them in the first place. To these naysayers, I say, "Bah." The ridiculous thing to do would have been to keep Jim and Pam apart. The normal, real-life thing to do was have them have a normal progression of a relationship, which means that yes, they got married.
But being The Office, they couldn't just get married. Things happened. (For the benefit of anyone watching off DVR, I won't go into detail.) But the things that happened were (mostly) expressions of joy and love (and of course, being The Office, expressions of awkwardness). We celebrated with Jim and Pam because their story seems real, and their happiness abundant. You could have dinner with Jim and Pam for real. You probably know a Jim and Pam, for that matter.
And this, it finally hit me, is what separates The Office from 30 Rock, my two favorite shows on television right now. The two suffer a lot of comparisons as they compete for the same awards and play on the same night. They're quirky, single-camera, non-audience comedies that are slightly absurd. The things that the characters do seem almost too obtuse to be believed, yet there's a truth that rings from them.
But 30 Rock finds its niche in cynicism. Good things rarely happen without a snarky remark or something spoiling it. If Liz Lemon were to get engaged, if Jack Donaghy were to hang on to true love, it wouldn't be believable, because 30 Rock depends on its characters being slightly on one side or the other of unhappy. The Office, despite its cynical look at the workplace, allows for its characters to be happy every now and then.
The outpourings of joy that came at the end of "Niagara" would have simply been a punchline and a cutaway on 30 Rock, but on The Office, it can be real and felt without an obligation to find the joke. You can love the characters on The Office, because you feel like some of them could love you back. 30 Rock, despite its sharpness and its wit, will never have the heart of The Office. By its very nature, it can't. And there's nothing wrong with that, and it's not as though I believe that moments of true happiness can only come from being in a relationship. But sometimes you need a moment of joy, free of sarcasm, free of cynicism, free of snark. These moments of joy, I fear, is what will keep Emmys away from The Office and coming back to 30 Rock.
And that occasional moment of joy is what makes The Office real, and what makes it okay and not ridiculous for The Office to be a love story. The guy at Hollywood was right after all.
*Yes, I remember his name. We had a long conversation until he found out I was married.
Yesterday at the mall, I found myself tempted beyond recognition. So bright, so shiny, so chewy...
Yes, friends, I was drawn in by the spell of a tower of gumball machines.
I circled twice trying to choose. Did I want Root Beer Float? Grape? Very Cherry? Was I going to be boring and go for Chicklets, or be adventurous and get the kind with the candy in the middle? I finally settled in front of the fruit-shaped sours and put my quarter in the slot. I twisted the knob to the right, relishing the clinking of my quarter entering the inner works of the machine and the solid THUNK of my gumball hitting the metal behind the metal door. Would I get lemon? Lime? Grape?
I cupped my hand and opened the little door, waiting for my gumball to come rushing down the shoot.
Instead, nothing. The shoot was empty.
I stuck my hand in the machine as far as it would go. I twisted the knob to the right and the left. I demonstrated extreme maturity and hit the machine. Nothing.
I turned my purse inside out hoping for some stray change, but no -- that was my only quarter. I finally looked wistfully at the bank of machines and went into Archiver's, the happy glow of paper and ridiculous cutting tools dimmed by the left-behind gumball.
I consoled myself by thinking that some kid was now going to get two gumballs for one quarter. I thought up scenarios in which a harried mom fishes a quarter out of her purse that she can't really afford and her kid gets bonus gum, or perhaps the kid is using his own hard-earned quarter and now has two gumballs and brings tears to harried mom's eyes by offering to share with his little brother. (This is my blessing and my curse -- everyone has a story, even people who don't exist for real.)
But the point of all of this is how much I love gumballs. Buying a gumball from a machine takes me back to being very little, my patience bought with pennies for the gumball machine outside the fitting room at JCPenney (this back in the day when JCPenney actually had stores in small towns and not just in shopping malls). There's a certain mystery to a gumball -- you put in your coin and you have no idea what is going to come out. As a child, it's as close to gambling as you get, and yet you always win. No matter what color comes out, you have the fun of tasty flavors and blowing bubbles and the moment of "this is my quarter, this is what I decided to do with it."
I'm 27 years old, and I still love these small things. I take pleasure in this small moment of choosing a flavor, turning the knob and having at least 30 seconds of fruity flavor before the gum goes stiff and stale. I used to try to hide the delight I get from these sorts of things, but I've decided in recent years that it doesn't do anyone any good. Why do things I enjoy if I don't let myself enjoy them? Why spend a quarter on a gumball if I'm going to sneak up to the machine and behave as though I'm on a mission from the CIA?
So I admit I was disappointed by being robbed by a gumball machine. But I enjoyed the process up until the moment I discovered that was all there was, and felt the kick from the universe that reminded me that the result isn't always ideal, but we can enjoy the attempt.
Last year about this time, Mike and I decided that our living room look much nicer if we painted, and would be much better organized if we got rid of the bookshelf that was just inside the front door and replaced it with a buffet. Said buffet could store all of the things that didn't have a home: atlases, the GPS, flashlights, etc. Thus I boxed up all of my books then on the shelves, and all of my books stacked on top of books, and all of my books piled around the shelf. We thought we'd find a better solution for books.
In December, we still hadn't found a solution (as some of you might remember: http://primrose.livejournal.com/510
Last night my future sister-in-law e-mailed me and asked if I had any ideas on resources for the unit she'll be teaching in her student teaching in the spring. Her topic: Westward Expansion. Of course I had ideas. They all happen to be packed away in said boxes.
So in my phlegmy sinusy haze, I started digging through boxes of books. My dog sprawled sentry once she figured out I was on the floor to do something other than play with her. What I wanted was every book I'd ever been assigned on the American West. What I found instead was my own wonder at my lack of organization.
In what other world do you find Harry Potter hanging out with Global Divas and How Sex Changed? How about Bill Bryson, Barbara Ehrenreich and Lucy Maud Montgomery? More Work for Mother and The Princess Diaries? Manual of Modern Museum Planning, the 9/11 Commission Report and A Summer to Die? Seven boxes, and not one of them made sense (with the vast exception of all of the Montgomery together, and all of the books on and by Charles Lindbergh were together).*
Really all I want to do at this moment is rebox, reorganize, catalog and make a to-be-read list. Okay, that's not true. I really would rather put all of the books on shelves somewhere in a place where I don't have to dig for them and I don't have to be surprised to find them in certain places. (Like this. I'm really kind of drooling over this person's shelves. http://kyusireader.blogspot.com/200
In the meantime, take a tack from the Bookshelf Project and tell me how you organize your books, if you do at all. If you want to add a picture, please do. If you, like me, are adrift in a sea of boxes, tell me that, too. I would take a picture of the boxes but that would be embarrassing beyond belief.
*May I just add that these seven boxes do not include the Rubbermaid tubs of boxes in the basement and those that gather dust in my grandparents' hay shed? And they do not include the books that invaded the headboard bookshelf on our bed, and the bookcase by our bedroom door, and the baker's rack full of books that got cornered in Mike's office four years ago and has been trapped by computers ever since?
On the stoop was a boy, maybe nine years old with a little too much gel in his hair but an earnest grin on his face. "Would you like to buy a candy bar?"
My mind raced. Did I have any cash? "I would but I don't have any cash." His face fell. "I'm sorry."
"That's okay," he said and headed back down my steps.
Now I was certain I had spent my last $2.50 on FroYo in the Loop on Wednesday (and oh, it was like self-serve nectar with cookie dough on top), but I recalled our little Muny cup of change in the bedroom. I could hear him talking to the neighbors through my open window, so I dashed into the bedroom and poured the cup out on the bed. I sifted through pennies and nickels, noting how similar quarters and nickels look in the dim light without my glasses, and finally came up with a dollar's worth of quarters.
By the time I got back outside, he was two houses down and his mother was speaking sternly to him in Spanish. I decided it wasn't worth it to go running down the block, quarters in hand and hair flailing everywhere, to interrupt the mother and buy a candy bar. So the quarters went back in the cup and I went back to my magazine, sugarless.
This got me thinking, however. When I was a kid, we had fund-raisers at least once a year. My parents always hated it when fund-raiser time came around, and I think they would have rather just given the school $25 rather than have me or Andrew running around with order forms for cookie dough or pizzas. I can't say that I blame them. But this wasn't an option. Our elementary school had a magazine drive every year, and we were supposed to go out and sell magazine subscriptions to people to raise money for new playground equipment or something. We were instructed very carefully to only sell to people we knew, and to not go through our neighborhoods door-to-door. (I lived in the country, so the very idea of going door-to-door seemed like something people only did in the movies, like buying ice cream from an ice cream truck and having lemonade stands and riding your bike to your friend's house and walking places on sidewalks.) Later on in middle school, we were charged with selling candy and other overpriced stuff for the benefit of the yearbook, and given the same caveat: Do not go door-to-door, and certainly don't go to people you don't know. So either a) why wasn't this kid given the same warning or b) why wasn't he heeding it? And c) why was his mother letting him get away with it?
The other thing that struck me is he never said, "I'm raising money for our school library" or whatever. Isn't the first rule of fund-raising to get the person hooked by making them sympathize with your cause? I might have thought of the Muny cup a little sooner if I'd been aware that he'd had a cause to support. (Seriously, tell me my money is going to poor little kids, or literacy programs, or puppies, and you've got a donation in hand, even when I can't afford it.)
If this kid stays involved at school (which for his sake, I hope he does), he's going to have a lot more fund-raisers coming his way. I hopes somewhere along the way he finesses his strategy a little bit. And if he's working for a cause to support little kids running literacy programs for puppies, I hope he comes back to my house.
I returned the skinny jeans.
I ended up with what they call boyfriend jeans. (They're acting like this is some big deal but I spent a good chunk of my teen years in cast-offs from Dad and Andrew, but I suppose marketing something called brother jeans sounds kind of creepy.) Miracle of miracles, I have found a pair of jeans that sit where I want, are hemmed where I want and are cut in a manner that minimize my hips! You're supposed to cuff them to mid-calf, but I kind of feel I'll look like something Mark Twain dreamed up if I do so. Besides, what "boyfriend" since Tom Sawyer got lost in a cave with Becky Thatcher has worn pants rolled up to mid-calf?
For the moment, I'm pleased. And when it comes to me and pants, pleased is a hard place to find.
Tonight I got on Ingrid Michaelson's Web site to pre-order her new album Everybody, which comes out Tuesday. You have three options for buying it there in packages with other Ingrid merchandise: tote bags, t-shirts, posters, stickers. The most expensive option is $99.99; the least expensive option is $19.99 and comes with the album and a sticker set. Dear Ingrid, I heart you dearly and seeing you come on to the stage at Blueberry Hill with Greg Laswell out of the clear blue made a fabulous evening even more fabulous, but I just want your album.
Then I went to Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers' Web site to pre-order their new album, The Bear, which comes out September 8. It's a steal at $12... but they're charging $6.59 for shipping.
So I swallowed my pride and went to Amazon. SK6ers is $13.99; Ingrid is $10.99.
So to calculate... if I stick to my principles, I spend $43.58 (assuming Ingrid charges $5 for shipping; it could be more, but I don't want to create an account with her company just to find out). If I cave, I spend $24.98 (and combine the order with something I was going to get anyway for the free shipping).
As I was anguishing over this, I turned to Mike and recounted the whole story. I asked if I were a bad consumer and a bad person for going against my principles and was I a hypocrite for wanting to order these CDs from Amazon.
He looked at me as though I were insane and said, "Yes. You are not only a bad consumer, you are a bad person. And you're murdering kittens. Because you want to order CDs from Amazon."
So I guess I am insane. An $18 difference is a lot of money.
Before I order, though, I'm calling Vintage Vinyl to see if they're going to be carrying either one. Supporting the local record store seems like a better use of my time, and a little less "alone in my principles."
I went shopping today with Chiffontae. I came home with birthday presents for some lovely people and a pair of skinny jeans.
I had vowed once upon a time never to wear skinny jeans. Anything that is that close to the 80s and that close to leggings can't be good for you, I figured. However, after despairing following trying on all possible styles of jeans in New York & Company and deciding that they all looked like the jeans I already had in my closet, I might as well try the skinny jeans. As I scrutinized them in the three-way mirror, Chiffontae assured me that they looked cute, and that if she could pull off skinny jeans, I could pull off skinny jeans.
Considering the fact that we were sharing a buy-one-get-one-free on all pants and considering the fact that we had a $20 off a $40 purchase coupon, I decided I could at least give the skinny jeans a chance for $15.
When I got them home, I tried them on again. I hated them. Mike was not on board with them either. These jeans suffer from the same problems every jeans do -- the thighs aren't big enough and the waist is too big. (Note that I say this is a problem with the jeans and not with me. I consider this growth on my part.) This is even more painfully obvious with skinny jeans as the point is that they be tight.
So my problem continues. I have two pairs of jeans, one pair of grey pants and one pair of black pants that I can wear in the fall and winter, which really and truly should be enough for someone who wears a uniform five days a week. I'm just frustrated that no matter what store I go to, I can't find anything that fits me (that I can afford).
I think the last time I bought a pair of jeans I actually liked and that fit me was seven years ago. And even then they were too long.
I really feel like I should make a statement about the greater commentary this makes on the fashion industry and the anguish we go through not about anything real but about issues manufactured by companies who try to put us all in the same box when we clearly don't fit. I feel like I should rail on about the woes of body image thrust upon us by society and how they are worsened when one can't even afford a pair of jeans that don't make one look like a sack of potatoes or a sausage in a woefully inadequate casing. I feel like there are things to be said on how everyone thinks everyone else has it easy when really, who can buy pants without anguish anymore?
But I'm tired and I've had a long day and I've said it all before. Besides, you all can probably wear skinny jeans, so what do you care?
I know this shouldn't be monumental news, but I read Dearest Friend: A Life of Abigail Adams cover to cover over the course of about a week and a half. As I shut the book I realized that I could not think of the last time I had read a book (with the exception of somewhat fluffy reading such as Carrie Fisher's Wishful Drinking) and started where the author had intended I start and ended where the author intended I end. I was proud of myself, and also slightly ashamed. Is this what sixteen semesters of higher education brought me: pride in doing something I'd otherwise done as long as I literally can remember? Had approximately nine years (with a fifteen-month hiatus) of reading for someone else brought me to a point where reading without underlining, without intext notes, without skipping ahead to the part that will give me the most salient discussion point was foreign to me?
This is embarrassing.
This is also why I'm embarking on my Presidential biography list: I need to get reacquainted with the fact that I love history. Two years of museum theory might have clouded that small tidbit from me, but it's still true.
I also need to remember something I told myself last year: Sometimes I need to read a book I can read quickly and shallowly and for myself. Sometimes I need a book I can read in a day. This book still has to meet my fairly high and exacting standards, but I still need it. I have little patience with anachronism, books that insult my intelligence or assume that all women are one of the four Sex and the City stereotypes, and I have very, very little patience for a good idea poorly expressed.
That last one is a dealbreaker. I said recently on Facebook that life is too short to read poorly written and/or ill-conceived books. I mean this fervently, and especially now that I am not assigned to read anything, I find this to be more and more the case. (I wasted enough time in school reading things that severely needed someone's help.) I started a book called The Autobiography of Vivian the other night and seriously felt like setting fire to it. Not only was I annoyed because the writing style was intentionally that of a teenybopper blog and that there was no respect for language or craft, I was annoyed because the author clearly expected me, the reader, to forgive her trespasses and enjoy the book perhaps because of them.
Now, I don't expect everyone who writes books to come out of a writing program and I don't expect everyone to be, say, Jhumpa Lahiri or Tim O'Brien. I don't expect everyone who writes to write a masterpiece. I do, however, expect a publishing house to have a little pride in their authors and not give a contract to anyone who comes along with a blog to peddle. I expect people who get published anywhere but Harlequin or their mom's basements to have something to say and to say it moderately well.
I think this was my major issue with Twilight (okay, one issue out of many major issues). If I'm going to spend my time reading something you've written -- and if I'm going to spend $7 on it -- I expect something a little better than your typical teenage fanfic writer with middling ability. (And let me tell you, as someone who spent an embarrassing amount of time 1997-1999 reading fanfic, there are some people out there putting their work out for free who should be signed to multi-book deals. For every one of them, there are fifty who, shall we say, shouldn't.) If I want a borderline-emo pity party about how nobody understands the narrator, I'll go back and reread Harry Potter and the Year of the Whining. I don't need some woman who has hardly seen a vampire movie droning on at me about vampires and the uncomprehendable struggle it is being the anti-feminist Mary Sue heroines who love them.
And now I stop this stream of randomness to return to the book of the day, 'Tis, which I'm reading in honor of its recently deceased author and narrator, Frank McCourt. It's interesting but not spellbinding; it's good but not great. Yet it's a book I can read with little investment and will finish likely by tomorrow afternoon, and that is at this moment the book I need to read.
Despite my initial worries that I was going to be vastly disappointed, I really enjoyed the movie very much. (That is, as much as one can enjoy a movie to which one knows the inevitable tragic end.) The basic story of eight Jews hiding in an office building during the Nazi occupation of Amsterdam is well-known, but the film brings new life and tension to what might be only known as required reading for some. I felt it conveyed the close quarters very well, and although the extensive pauses cut together in the editing room make certain scenes a bit tedious, the tension between the residents in hiding is thick and natural. The story moves along well, using Anne as the narrator by voiceover to note the passage of time. Quotes from Anne's published diaries keep the movie grounded in its source, and the extrapolated and enhanced scenes mostly blend into with the events chronicled in the diary.
As the film is bookended with Mr. Frank's return to his hiding place after the war, there never is the false hope that maybe, just maybe, this time the families will get away with it and the police won't come. One can almost forget that the end is coming when the few happy moments sparkle, such as the families' Hanukkah celebration or when Anne and Peter start to grow closer. However, throughout the last third of the movie the tension is expertly built and it reaches out to the viewer, who empathizes with Anne's sister Margot when she cries that she just wishes the end would come. She, like the viewer, knows the end is near but the waiting is excruciating. And when the end does come, the families take it better than this viewer, at least: they wait with a quiet resignment; I waited in tears.
Millie Perkins's Anne is nearly perfect -- bubbly near the beginning in a way that makes it clear she would certainly get on the nerves of an apartment full of adults, more subdued as the film goes on. Her occasional long monologues are a bit stiff, but overall, she is the light in the darkness. Joseph Schildkraut played Otto Frank as I'd always imagined him: firm, loving, and the undisputed anchor of the group. I nearly choked upon seeing Ed Wynn's name in the credits, and feared that the whole time I'd see Mary Poppins's Uncle Albert instead of a somewhat cranky dentist. Anne's diary, however, makes Dussell out to be a slightly ridiculous self-important man, and Mr. Wynn's portrayal of this interpretation is spot-on.
While movies from classic books are often hit and miss, the apparent care and respect that went into this one make it a classic and a worthy representation of a book that has touched millions.
( For a little bit on my evolving and eventually stormy relationship with The Diary of a Young Girl, follow the cut... )
And, as a note -- I've been telling myself I'm going to start writing reviews of books and movies and concerts again for about a year and a half now. This movie, for some reason, was the kick in the pants to start. Expect more reviews, and perhaps a blog dedicated solely to reviews, in the future.
Essay: Cronkite and the voice of authority gone
WASHINGTON – "And that's the way it is," he'd say. It wasn't, but we wanted that reassurance. The idea that someone could wrangle the world each night and boil it down to a sensible, digestible half hour was so comforting.
Barely a generation has passed since Walter Cronkite disappeared from our evenings. But the notion of one man — a single, authoritative, empathetic man, morally reassuring and mild of temper — wrapping up the world after dinner for America seems incalculably quaint in the technological coliseum that is 21st-century communications.
Many of the network farewells to the CBS anchorman, who died Friday at 92, seemed built around the notion of the father figure. Anchors and reporters who are part of another age — a still-unfolding era of community feedback, viewer outreach and social-media interaction — struggled to summon the idea of anchor as monolith.
"We'd all let him watch our kids when we went out to the supermarket if we had the chance," NBC anchorman Brian Williams said. Hard to imagine Bill O'Reilly or Keith Olbermann, vigorous though they are, as national baby sitters.
"Uncle Walter," we called him. But on the Internet, there's not much use for uncles.
We are now confronted with a rushing, 24-hour river of information, much of it chaotic and raw, with no one to shepherd us through it.
Though network TV news remains popular, its demographic is older and it has struggled, losing about 1 million viewers a year in the years since Cronkite retired as anchor in 1981.
At the end of last year, according to Gallup, 31 percent of Americans considered the Internet to be a daily news source, a 50 percent gain since 2006. That's almost 100 million people actively reaching out to get their news rather than flipping on the TV and waiting for it to come to them.
At the same time, people now want a stake in their news and direct attention from the people who deliver it. They're demanding it, and they're getting it.
NBC's Williams, for example, does a daily blog. CNN anchor Rick Sanchez has built his midafternoon show around feedback from followers on Twitter and Facebook. News has become a two-way street, something to create community around.
That can be at once productive and perilous.
It gives an exhilarating voice to the voiceless. Yet it also can encourage consensus reality. If enough of us say it loudly enough, it must be true. In the 1960s and 1970s, Cronkite was accepted as the everyday incarnation of empirical truth — "a voice of certainty in an uncertain world," as President Barack Obama put it Friday night.
Cronkite's legendary assessment of Vietnam's quagmire — the one that led Lyndon Johnson to lament, "If I've lost Cronkite, I've lost Middle America" — is often cast as a barometer of the anchor's power at the time. What shouldn't be ignored is that, even then, the waning of that kind of power had begun.
"Middle America" then generally meant white and over 30, the very people that the young, energetic game-changers of the late 1960s were insisting shouldn't be trusted. Power to the people was upending the national hierarchy, and the Age of Many Voices was approaching.
Four decades later, cacophony reigns. What room is there for the conscience of a nation, for history's anchorman, for the father we all wanted?
In 2009, even trust, at least in the public realm, seems an uneasy notion. It's something we continue to desire. But in an age of wholesale, instantaneous, unprecedented lying, trust is something that may not be that wise when it comes to evaluating our sources of information.
That's what has changed since Cronkite's heyday.
Today's model works more like this: Everyone vies to get his personalized, customized, agenda-driven version of "that's the way it is" enshrined in the cultural canon. We shout, cajole, maneuver, horse-trade. We demonize the opposition. We brand ideas as products and send them on their way, ready to do battle in the marketplace.
Our anchors follow suit, riding the rising crest of expectation and anticipation and, sometimes, misusing it. "It's not the old voice of reassuring honesty that they cultivate, but one of perpetual anxiety," Los Angeles Times TV critic Robert Lloyd wrote in his Cronkite eulogy.
The coliseum is always open for business. If you've got a TV or a laptop, you're plugged in to the whole planet and can have your say. No one person can speak for us all — we don't even pretend that's the case anymore — and those who tried would be put in their places as fast as you can say Edward R. Murrow.
That can be a glorious expression of democracy, or it can lead, as it did Saturday morning, to the most e-mailed story on Yahoo! News being the one about the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile crashing into a house in Wisconsin. Democracy has a way of being quite democratic.
Nightly American comfort, Cronkite style, is a thing of the past, if it ever really existed at all. Perhaps, in the Age of Many Voices, comfort and reassurance is not meant to be our lot. Maybe that's just the way it is.
___
EDITOR'S NOTE — Ted Anthony covers American culture for The Associated Press.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090719/ap_
I have nothing against the right of a person to express him or herself. I have nothing against holding opinions. I have nothing against disagreeing with what is printed in the newspaper.
My first issue is a perhaps shallow one: Whenever I read the comments section of a news story, I cringe at Americans' lack of ability to spell, punctuate and communicate a coherent thought. Not everyone has to be a masterful writer, but seriously, where do all these people fall through the cracks? By the time I'm done reading even five comments to the average story, I want to give up my life as a public servant and go teach children how to write.
More importantly, however, is my second issue: The Internet is making us worse. I know I defend social networking, blogging, tweeting and pretty much everything else the Internet has brought us, but comment sections in the newspaper bring out the worst in us. People hide behind a clever screen name and a cute avatar and say whatever they want with no regard for propriety, respect or the truth. Because online communities carry no weight, people say whatever they want. They blame the President (past or sitting) for all of their problems; they make racist, sexist and other bigoted comments; they spread lies and contribute to sensationalism. They bash the newspaper yet see no problem in using the newspaper's server space to conduct their discussion.
Now, people truly haven't grown more opinionated since the advent of the Internet. People used to write letters to the editor. They'd complain to their friends. They'd talk at the water cooler or the barber shop or the park. The difference, however, between the pre-Internet discussions and the current ones is that the Internet discussions are anonymous. In a different world, even one I lived and breathed when I worked for a newspaper five years ago, you had to take credit for what you said. You put a name and a phone number and an address with your opinion and it was verified that you were a real person. You could stir the pot all you wanted, but you had to take credit for it.
And that perhaps is my problem with these comment boards. People don't typically say things like "All the blacks have to do in North St. Louis is kill each other, so no wonder there are so many murders up there" in public when they have to take credit for it, but on the Internet, it's wide open. Say whatever you want about whomever you want and have no repercussions for it at all.
An op-ed piece in the Boston Globe yesterday (http://www.boston.com/bostonglobe/edit
He in turn was blasted as a hypocrite, with many saying that an op-ed writer shouldn't criticize the people's right to voice opinions. I think everyone is missing the point. A newspaper is certainly not out there to squash people's right to information or to opinions. A newspaper shouldn't, however, be fostering an environment for unsubstantiated rumors and anonymous hate.
One commenter lamented the days of yore in which anyone could be a journalist. Truly? When newspapers sent reporters out to cover battles during the Civil War and many of them sent back reports without ever having come within ten miles of the battlefield, counting oftentimes on the reports of soldiers who hadn't seen any action either? Is that what you're looking for? When a nation hungry for any news from the front demanded reporting and so reporters made up stories and filed them as truth?
But, then again, in those days, reporters reported with a pseudonym, so they didn't have to face the music for what they said either. Anonymity brought out the worst in them, and I think it brings out the worst in us.
* Another holiday has come and gone. On the Fourth proper I worked (I've never worked such a slow Independence Day and I can remember being off two Independence Days out of the last ten) and then Mike's mom and brother came over. It drizzled so we didn't have concrete fireworks plans, which was okay because we'd been downtown to see the fireworks after the Counting Crows concert at the Arch. More about this later. We spent the rest of evening at Lumiere Place, the allegedly upscale casino on the riverfront, but they let me in wearing a tanktop and my Twins cap, so how upscale can they be? I enjoyed the holiday enough, mostly because a) I got to see fireworks and b) I didn't know I was having company so I didn't have time to freak out or make a lot of food or feel guilty because I didn't do things the way my mom would. I passed out Bomb Pops after we ate our barbecue takeout and that was enough.
* I have an afternoon date with a girlfriend today, which makes me extrordinarily happy. Going out for lunch and/or late afternoon appetizer frenzies on weekdays always seems like playing hooky, like some kind of special treat. Mondays off is one of the perks of working Saturday.
* I find myself not missing school at all. This is good. Both my diploma and my graduate certificate came in the mail in the last few days, bringing a small amount of finality to the educational process. Opening those envelopes was slightly anti-climatic, however. Finding that my diploma simply says Master of Arts (for some reason I figured it would have my degree on it) and that my certificate was made with a Word template in 38 seconds (for some reason I thought it would be more official, with at least some embossing or a seal or some manner of certification that I did not in fact make it on my computer myself) was depressing, and luckily I was running out the door to other things when they came in the mail or I may have dwelled further.
* I've been watching the weather in other cities and at this moment I kind of wish I had a reason to relocate to Schenectady, New York. In addition to having weather in the mid-70s to low-80s for weeks now, it's just fun to say Schenectady.
* I operate in defense of social networking, truly, but I have to curse when said social networks display to me how little people know about their own language. I know I am a snob about writing but it doesn't take Virginia Woolf to know which your/you're is appropriate.
* I'm ashamed of my own sexism, as the water guy turned out to be a water woman. Her task was a little more involved than the gas guy but I still wonder exactly what it is she was here to do.
And now that both of my visitors for the day have come and gone, I can get about the real business of my day: Doing nothing while running the washing machine.
Of course there's a story.
I was outside waiting for some people, and while I waited, I started watching the bugs crawling about on one of our signs. (I'm easily fascinated.) There were ants, caterpillars... and the weirdest spider I'd ever seen. It was neon green with very long front legs and very short back legs.
Photo from a University of Kentucky Web site on spiders: http://www.uky.edu/Ag/CritterFiles/case
I found this spider fascinating. I'd never seen any crawling thing that green, not even a katydid. It wrapped its front legs around the edge of the sign and scurried across like a crab. I kept moving to get the best view as it crept around the sign, careful to stay away as its pincers looked pretty fierce.
Just as I was thinking, "Boy, if I were a spider, I wouldn't appreciate some gigantic being shadowing me," the spider shot a stream of web across to me and started scuttling across the strand. It was coming for me.
So of course I yelped a little and grabbed at the strand of web. Now rather than the strand of web being stuck to my shirt, it was stuck to my hand and the spider was climbing up the strand.
That was the point where I really started to freak out. I shook my hand, squealing, "Oh my gosh oh my gosh!" and inadvertently transfered the spider from my hand to my pantleg. Which didn't make things any better. A swift smack to my calf and the spider was gone -- presumably. As I was mumbling to myself about where it went and what if it was on me somewhere I couldn't see, the people I was waiting for came up to me. And had seen the whole thing. So I had to tell them the story, and even though I think they thought I was crazy, they'd never heard of an electric green spider either.
Apparently it was a thomisid crab spider, which, again, I've never heard of (thank you, Google). The Web site I cited above says that the thomisids "ambush predators: crab spiders wait motionless on flowers, leaves, and other strategic places for flies, bees, and similar prey." Well, I was ambushed, I'll tell you that. I think I'm a little bigger than this spider's normal prey, but still. Those pincers were enough to freak me out, as was the ambushing, despite the Web site's claim that"[s]ome species are large enough to bite people, but no crab spiders are known to be dangerous."
Thus your nature lesson of the day from your resident historian.
When I was born, my pediatrician told my mother, "Don't put this kid in shoes until she's two years old." So I wore socks or slippers or moccasins but no hard-soled shoes until I was two. Even when my parents tried to put me in shoes later on, I never liked them. Those who know me know I still to this day would much rather go barefoot or wear sandals than wear socks and shoes. (This is one nice thing about St. Louis -- the winters are warm enough that I can get away with Birkenstocks or flip-flops most of the year.) I refuse to wear heels, and I refuse to wear uncomfortable shoes simply because they're cute.
So my feet spend most of their free time exposed, and I have no problem if other people choose to do so too.
This morning in the Post-Dispatch, there's an article that goes on about how bad flip-flops are for you, and how even though they're marginally better than going barefoot, they provide no arch support and make you walk in an unnatural manner to keep them on.
Now, I have two points stemming from this article.
First, I've heard this argument about how bad flip-flops are for you before, but what I'm waiting to hear is how bad stilettos are for you, how unnaturally we walk when we're teetering about on toothpicks. How about those pointy-toed shoes that cram your toes into an unthinkably tiny space? When are we going to have an expose on how bad those four-inch wedge sandals are that contort your feet at angles that would make Barbie cringe? Why do flip-flops, which, yes, provide little support, get the hard time when they allow your feet to breathe and give your toes room to move, which most fashionable shoes do not afford? Why do flip-flops get a hard time for aggrivating bunions and other foot problems when heels and small toe boxes are just as much if not more to blame? Does Manolo Blahnik fund these foot research studies or something?
Second, people on the comment section are saying people shouldn't wear flip-flops because they don't want to see people's exposed feet. Feet? Really? That's what you think is wrong with American fashion trends: exposed feet? If you seriously think feet are a major problem, go into any bar in America on a Friday night and I guarantee, people's feet are going to be the least weird or repulsive thing you're going to see.
Perhaps I'm biased, however, because of my own aversion to wearing shoes. Thus, I turn this over to you: are feet repulsive? Are flip-flops repulsive? Where is your line on what shoes you'll wear?
But as I've said before, I have a major emotional connection to the music I listen to. Having to find 50 songs to download every month before they expire is painful some months, as I don't want to download something I don't love, but I can't always find something that fits the bill. It's like 50 blind dates and I want every one to be an earthshaking experience when that is simply not going to happen.
So eMusic and I have kind of a love/hate relationship.
Last night I logged in to download Jay Nash's new EP, All the Stars in Copenhagen, and was greeted with a link telling me that "major expansion" to the music catalog was on the horizon. And truly, there is a major expansion taking place -- several major labels (Arista, Columbia, Epic and RCA) will be putting portions of their catalog up for download on eMusic.
Which means the price goes up.
I initially started out at eMusic with 30 tracks a month for $9.99. Then the price went up to $11.99 a month, but I got 20 extra tracks for my $2. Now I'm back to 30 tracks a month for $11.99.
I can't decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Seeing as how I was already tempted to jump ship, this can't be all good.
Clearly there are some people who are staunchly against the addition of major labels and the increased price tag they demand. Some people are all on board with the labels, saying the more music the merrier. I'm concerned that in a tight economy, enough people will leave in protest that eMusic will come upon hard times, and my price will go up again. I'm willing to hang on for the moment and see what happens, but I wouldn't be surprised if I decided to invest my $11.99 a month in actual physical albums that I really want, rather than in digital downloads that are sometimes hit or miss.
I do have to say, though, that I am very impressed with the eMusic community -- since the CEO blogged about the new changes, he's received 1,485 comments and counting, and of the comments I've read, everyone has been articulate, intelligent and fairly calm. Nobody's yelling or screaming; nobody's becoming profane; nobody's making threats. People are upset, but they're expressing their displeasure in a remarkably adult manner. I had thought that kind of discussion had disappeared from the Internet (except maybe at the New York Times's Web site). It's not what you find on the comments section of your local newspaper's Web site, I'll tell you that much. So go eMusic.
In the meantime -- do you have an eMusic account? How do you feel about the changes? If you don't have an eMusic account, are the new offerings enough to make you jump on board? And where do you fall in the digital vs. physical album debate?
ETA: I just discovered that Me First & the Gimme-Gimmes have their discography on eMusic, which is enough reason for me to stick around until I round out that hole in my library. If you're not familiar, I highly recommend them.
A couple stood outside -- well-dressed, about my age, not bearing any weapons, religious tracts or magazine subscriptions that I could see, so I opened the storm door and started to step outside. As the door creaked open, I heard the guy say something, and I swore it was:
"Are your parents at home?"
"Pardon me?" I asked as I shut the door. Clearly, I thought, I didn't hear him right.
"Are your parents at -- oh, God, are you the homeowner?"
"Yes, yes I am."
"Oh, God, I'm sorry -- I make that mistake a lot." And he proceeded to offer to clean my carpet for free to promote his new business. I begged off, saying you can't even see the living room floor because we're sorting three months of junk mail (which is absolutely true) but said I'd take a brochure or a business card.
They didn't have any.
Strike two, kids.
They very quickly moved on after that.
Now, seriously, who comes to promote a new business with no cards, no brochures, nothing to remind people who you are? Where's your van with your cleaning equipment? And seriously, even if you are on the up-and-up, how far are you going to get with 27-year-old potential customers if you ask them if their parents are home?
Now before anyone starts in, I know that someday I will appreciate the fact that I look younger than I am, and occasionally it does come in handy. But as anyone else out there who has the same problem will attest, it's not just that "oh, they don't think I'm old enough to drink, sob sob!" There's a difference in how people treat you. It's like when you're 17 and you want your parents to treat you like an adult, except now you pay taxes and a mortgage and have grey hairs to boot.
But in the meantime, I should milk it for all it's worth while I can, telling hapless traveling salespeople that my parents are in Belize, or in jail, or in jail in Belize. Maybe they'd be willing to clean extra carpet for free for the poor high-school daughter of the missionary jailbirds.
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